The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book

by Manuel Werner

The invited guests gathered at the inn would have been of the same ilk in any epoch: insouciant of civil authority; laws unto themselves; disdain for others and deep suspicion their common baggage. They were as self indulgent as they were wealthy beyond reason. These people were erstwhile business acquaintances of Martin’s. They knew no limits to their needs and no restraints in fulfilling them. They would eat vile tasting wildlife if only to say they had consumed the last living member of a species; they would pay to watch human blood sports; they would engage in any depravity which they believed was unique and accessible only to them. In the same spirit they were prepared to buy artifacts which were irreplaceable and otherwise priceless. These perfect humans were to be the conduit for turning Abelard’s treasure into usable currency.

  They were only 15, but between them they purchased everything that was put up for sale. One particular buyer, a strongly built, dark haired man attracted Abelard’s attention. There was something elusively familiar about him. He knew he had never seen this man before but that he resembled someone he had known; whether in his memories or after being found, he was not able to say. He was showing a great deal of interest in a jeweled coronet. A good opportunity for Abelard to scratch his increasingly itchy curiosity.

  “Belonged to King John the Good,” Abelard said, as amiably as he could manage.

  “You mean King John the Stupid, don’t you,” the buyer said with a smile. “Martin tells me this is your loot; something about your ancestors having taken it during the battle of Poitiers. Apparently you have only just succeeded in locating it after all these years. Very impressive, indeed. I’m thinking of donating this piece to the national museum. I can always say it has been in my family for centuries. No one will delve any further.”

  “That would be very generous of you. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “That’s because I haven’t given it,” he said, behind an inscrutable smile, and handed Abelard a simple business card: Cassius del Verme and underneath, Splendid Co. SC., Geneva. Abelard could only stare. He was struck dumb.

  “Abelard Bush,” he finally managed, evidently somewhat disoriented. “Please excuse me, I shall be right back.”

  “Is something wrong,” del Verme asked, solicitously.

  “Thank you, no I’m fine. It’s been a trying week and I guess I need some rest. But I do have to see that gentleman over there about an extremely urgent matter,” and he strode across the room where a small man with a giant lady in tow was examining a cluster brooch.

  “Damn, how did that piece get here? It’s already been sold,” he said with oozing concern. “Please forgive me,” and he snatched the piece from him. He did not wait for any feedback but simply shoved the brooch into his pocket and walked away. He had other plans for that artefact. On his way back to del Verme he stopped beside Martin and suggested that the disappointed guest might need some mollifying.

  “Please accept my apologies for so abruptly walking away,” Abelard begged.

  “No problem, my friend, which Abelard understood as it was meant, don’t call me I’ll call you. And just to emphasize how very little it suggested, he added, “if you are ever in Siena, where I actually live, my coordinates are on the back of the card, Geneva being no more than a convenient tax advantage. Although it is not easy to get hold of me, please do call if you have a moment. Siena is a very pretty town.” Abelard could not agree more; he was quite familiar with the small city.

  Apart from some items Abelard had decided to hold back, for sentimental reasons, he claimed, everything was sold. The take was fabulous; just over 990 million dollars, with 10% going to Martin as commission.

  “And what will you do with all that money,” Martin asked Abelard?

  “My share,” he emphasized, will buy me freedom and keep the wolves at bay,” which elicited knowing nods from Elizabetta, Felicity and Oliver.

  “What do you mean your share? I thought this was your family’s treasure,” Martin asked, evidently baffled.

  “Without Oliver and Felicity I would not be here and the treasure would never have seen the light of day. One third of what remains after you and Elizabetta receive your dues belongs to me. The rest goes to them.”

  “However,” Abelard continued, with a sly glint in his eyes, “I’m hoping that Felicity will throw her lot in with me and so her third will never leave my sight as,” he was quick to add, “would my third always remain within hers.”

  Oliver was openly blushing, as everyone expected him to make a similar statement with regard to Elizabetta. He did not oblige, open sentimentality not being in his nature. He just put his arms around her and held her tightly. Elizabetta’s neutral smile, no teeth showing, left her thoughts unfathomable.

  “Where to now,” Oliver asked?

  “I’ve got some unfinished business in Florence. It won’t be long and I would hope you would stay here with Felicity and Elizabetta until I get back, I’d guess in under a week.”

  “You’re going to see that witch, aren’t you,” Felicity cried? “Do you also have a death wish buried in there with your medieval memories? Why are you doing this?”

  “No one will be killing me,” Abelard said, nonchalantly, “if I give them what they want. Otherwise we will be running all our lives.”

  “And just what are you going to give them,” Oliver asked, already knowing the answer?

  “The sample, of course.”

  “Why would they want that sample,” Felicity asked, also guessing what he would answer?

  “They believe I’m the authentic article and expect to extract from the sample the secret to immortality.”

  “I’m sorry to break into what is apparently a private conversation being held in public,” he being that public of one, “but what are you talking about?”

  “I guess there’s no harm in telling Martin about the delusions of Dona Maria, is there,” Abelard stated, rather than asked? “There are people in Florence, quite a rough crowd, who have convinced themselves that I am the same Abelard de Buch, my 650 year old ancestor, whose tales I have been telling, and there is nothing I can do to convince them otherwise. They want a sample of my DNA which they believe they can then clone and produce some sort of long life potion. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? Those Italian gangsters, it seems, will believe anything.”

  “I have this itchy feeling, Abelard, that you’re not telling me the entire story. But, hey, I just made 90 million dollars today, I’m perfectly happy to leave you your secrets. But do take care. I’ve grown quite fond of your stories.”

  “At least let me come with you,” Oliver pleaded.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. It will be a lot quicker if I go alone. I know these people and they will be alarmed if I show up with someone else. I would like to leave in the morning.” Abelard kept to himself his own assessment as to the risks a confrontation with Dona Maria might entail.

  *